The Young Rebels (4 page)

I
n February the Ardmháistir went to America on a fund-raising tour for the school. Without his stern presence we might have run riot, but we did not. We boys worked harder at our lessons than ever so Willie would send him good reports of us. We redoubled our efforts at sports, too, and with the Fianna.

The St Enda’s Company of Na Fianna Éireann is commanded by Con Colbert, who is a strict
drillmaster
. No larking about is allowed. We form up in lines as straight as if drawn by a ruler, and we obey orders instantly. We have only rifles carved of wood for weapons drill. But when the order comes to shoulder arms every imitation weapon sits on
every shoulder at the same precise angle.

The Fianna uniform includes a double-breasted dark green tunic with lots of useful pockets. The hat is the same as that of the Boy Scouts in Britain, but the Fianna badge is a gold sunburst with a white pikestaff head on a green field. For dress parade there is a
saffron-coloured
kilt like those Fionn’s warriors wore. The first time I saw boys in kilts I started to laugh at them, but then I changed my mind. They looked … proud. Before I came to St Enda’s, my teachers told me the Irish were ignorant peasants with nothing to be proud of, but now I know that’s wrong.

We had Cúchulainn and Fionn MacCumhaill and Brian Boru. And Mr Pearse says we have the future, too.

My uniform has been ordered from a woman in Dublin who makes them, but it hasn’t arrived yet. With so many boys anxious to join there’s quite a backlog. Roger’s joined, too, and already has his uniform. In his new gear he doesn’t seem pudgy, but sturdy, like a real soldier. So I tell him, ‘You look a right pillock,’ and he gives me a shove and I give him a shove.

I’m grateful to Aunt Nell for giving me permission to become one of the Fianna. I’ve heard nothing from my father, however. I suppose he’s glad to be rid of me.

I don’t care. I have the Pearses. And the future.

On the parade ground – which is also our playing
field – Commandant Colbert issues his commands in Irish. In the school’s prospectus Mr Pearse states that St Enda’s can turn a boy into a competent Irish speaker within a year. But I can understand Con Colbert already.

Countess Markievicz can shoot a rifle. She
demonstrated
it for us today and hit the bull’s eye three times in a row. I never saw a woman shoot a rifle before. She is a wonder. She is an officer in James Connolly’s
Citizen
Army, which is mostly composed of working-class people, and drills with them in Croydon Park. She also set up a soup kitchen in Liberty Hall, the headquarters of the trade union movement, for victims of the
lockout
. She spends part of every day working there, yet she still finds time to visit the various companies of the Fianna around Dublin. When the Countess comes to see us we step out smartly while she watches like a general reviewing his troops. A slight nod of approval from her makes us feel ten feet tall.

I think Madame – that’s what we call her, she has no use for titles – should wear golden armour and
brandish
a great sword. For her sake I would storm the gates of Heaven. Or of Hell, though I’d never let Mr Pearse hear me say
that
.

He wants so much to believe that we are pure and good, filled with the high ideals he cherishes. The truth
is, we sometimes have bad thoughts and do bad things. We are just boys.

Although boys enjoy a good scrap among
themselves
, in the Fianna we imagine a common enemy and are training to fight him together. There is a great spirit among the Fianna:
esprit de corps
, Madame calls it.

One afternoon on the playing field I offer to help Roger improve at hurling. In return, he invites me to come to his house and play with his dog. I’m going to do it, too! My father can’t stop me playing with
someone
else’s dog.

When Mam died I thought I would never have fun again. But I am having fun. Although sometimes I feel guilty, it’s hard to feel guilty all the time.

In addition to drilling at the school we go on manoeuvres in the Dublin mountains with other Fianna companies. If the weather is not too bad, we bring a big trek cart to hold our supplies and tents and we camp out. Roger, who used to complain so bitterly about the cold, is one of the most eager campers.

Madame Markievicz personally leads the Fianna on marches through the streets of Dublin. We strut along the cobbles, past the blue and green gas lamps, with our heads up and our chests out and feeling as grown-up as anything. Madame points out historic sites such as the old Irish Parliament building – we no
longer have a parliament of our own – and the place where Robert Emmet was hanged. We know all about Robert Emmet. We’ve been studying him in school, particularly his famous speech from the dock. Every time I read, ‘When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth …’ I get a lump in my throat.

The nationalist movement is gaining strength every day. Nationalists believe that Ireland should belong to her people and not to the British crown. The
Ardmháistir
and Willie Pearse and Thomas MacDonagh are all nationalists, and what they say makes sense to me.

Who is King George to tell us what to do? He’s not even English, he’s German, his family name is
Saxe-Coburg
-Gotha. I read that in the
Freeman’s Journal
the other day. Willie goes out early every morning on his bicycle and brings back the newspapers, which we are encouraged to read.

My father never offered to let me read the papers. He said I wouldn’t understand them. But I do. I understand when, on the twenty-fifth of April, the newspapers report that 35,000 rifles and 2 ½ million rounds of ammunition have been landed at Larne for the Ulster Volunteer Force.

Yet a recently passed law denies ordinary Irish men the right to bear arms. That’s in the papers too.

A number of people who have nothing to do with
the school are paying calls on Mr Pearse. Sometimes the lights burn very late in his office, and from my dormitory window I can see large black motor-cars parked in the forecourt.

Between the playing field and the long drive that leads up to the house is a wide border of trees and shrubbery. There are a lot of laurels and
rodo-somethings
that keep their leaves all year. When we leave the playing field we often take a short-cut through the border. This afternoon I stopped to whittle my initials – very small! – on a tree trunk, but before I finished I heard the bell ringing from the house to call us to tea. I dropped my knife into my coat pocket and began to run.

When I took off my coat to hang it up, the pocket was empty.

So here I am on hands and knees, searching the border for the knife my father gave me. His father gave it to him, and if I lose it – well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

I hear voices. The Ardmháistir and Mr MacDonagh are walking down the drive deep in conversation. I don’t want Mr Pearse to know about me carving my
initials
, so I keep very still, trusting the leaves to hide me.

To my horror the two men stop only a few paces away. Can they hear the sudden pounding of my heart
as I crouch here in the shrubbery? I say a quick prayer, promising God that if they don’t find me I shall never eavesdrop again. Never ever.

‘Things look very grave, Tom,’ Mr Pearse is saying. ‘According to today’s papers, the UVF now claims to have over one hundred thousand men. They intend to set up what they call the ‘provisional government of Ulster’ if the Home Rule Bill passes in Parliament. It could mean another civil war.’

‘My colleagues in Trinity are more concerned about the possibility of war in Europe,’ Thomas MacDonagh replies. ‘The arms race is proceeding headlong with no concern for the ultimate result. Austria, Germany, France, even Russia … why, the whole place is a powder keg, Pat. Any spark might set it off. Just think how many Irish men are in the British army right now. For so many of our poor it’s the only way they can earn a living and support their families. If there is war on the Continent thousands more will be recruited, or conscripted, to protect British interests there.’

‘To fight for King George?’ Mr Pearse’s voice
crackles
with anger. ‘It’s
this
country our lads should be fighting for!’

‘Ireland? Ireland’s nothing more than a supplier of cannon fodder for Britain,’ Mr MacDonagh says glumly. Although usually cheerful, he has melancholy moods. I
suppose that’s part of being a poet.

They begin walking again and pass out of my
hearing
. But those words echo in my ears. Cannon fodder for Britain.

I wait for a long time before going back to the house.

The Study Hall is a large, rectangular room in a wing off the main house. At the far end is a big pull-down map of the world. The British Empire, coloured a vivid pink, dominates. If we glance up from our desks it is the first thing we see.

To the right of the map is a doorway that leads to the Chapel. On one side of the room is a stage for our
theatrical
performances, on the other side are tall windows that look out onto the lawn. The March light coming into the hall is dull and grey, and I am squinting at my own handwriting, trying to make sense of the chicken tracks on my paper, when the Ardmháistir enters. His unexpected appearance comes as a surprise. We’re not supervised in study hall because we’re on our honour. We all stand up. Mr Pearse acknowledges our courtesy and gestures for us to sit down again. He goes to the map. Producing a small pot of paint and a brush, he begins to paint Ireland green.

It’s the most defiant act I’ve ever seen.

Or is it? I almost remember something that happened when I was very small, a terrifying morning when …
no, it’s slid away. I don’t want to remember.

The boy sitting beside me today, Ned Halloran, is several years older than I and comes from the west of Ireland. While the rest of us gape at the Ardmháistir, Ned rises to his feet and puts his hand over his heart.

‘The Republic of Ireland,’ he says in a strong, clear voice.

A swift intake of breath, then we are all on our feet.

‘The Republic of Ireland!’

I
’m spending the summer at home, but it’s no
holiday
. My father either shouts and roars or is deadly quiet, it’s hard to know which is more dangerous. When there’s drink taken he slams his fist against the wall and breaks the furniture. Some nights he does not even come home. To make matters worse, he and Aunt Nell are fighting worse than ever. I’m afraid she’ll walk out and leave me alone with my father.

At night I kneel beside my bed and pray to Mam, asking her to help me. I know I should be praying to Jesus and Mary and the saints, but the only face I see behind my closed eyes is my mother’s.

In June the nationalists stage their annual pilgrimage
to the grave of Wolfe Tone at Bodenstown, and the Fianna, led by Constance Markievicz, are invited to take part. I desperately want to go but I make the
mistake
of asking my father on a morning when he has a sore head.

‘I won’t have you consorting with nationalist rabble!’ he roars. Then winces at the pain behind his eyes.

Good. I hope it really hurts.

Later the newspapers carry the story. The Irish
Volunteers
, the Citizen Army, Cumann na mBan and the Fianna all turned out for the event, which was huge. A notorious republican called Tom Clarke gave a ringing address at the graveside.

And I was sitting at home.

Mr MacDonagh was right.

On the twenty-eighth of June, Archduke Ferdinand of Austria and his wife were shot dead as they rode in their carriage. The assassin is a Serbian. I know where Serbia is; it’s in the Balkans, one of the areas which is not pink on the map.

The killings have brought Austria and Serbia to the point of war. Britain has offered to mediate – which means try to make peace between the two – but the offer was rejected. The Kaiser of Germany
condemned
the British offer as ‘insolence’. It’s as if the
great nations were just waiting for an excuse, like boys spoiling for a fight. The Russian Czar has mobilised his army. So have Germany and France.

Closer to home, the
Irish Press
reports the Ulster
Volunteer
Force marching through Belfast fully armed and carrying two Colt machine guns.

On the twenty-fifth of July a handwritten note addressed to me is delivered by a member of the Fianna. ‘On Sunday next, Na Fianna Éireann will stage a joint exercise with the Irish Volunteers. Manoeuvres shall consist of a long route march originating in and returning to Dublin. Following early Mass please
present
yourself in uniform at Father Matthew Park in
Fairview
. Bring a day’s rations.’

The Irish Volunteers have been holding route marches for weeks. If we’ve been invited to join them I’m determined not to miss it!

Instead of approaching my father I go to Aunt Nell. ‘How far is Fairview from here?’

‘Miles away on the north side, John Joe. It’s land recently reclaimed from the estuary of the Liffey. Why are you interested?’

‘The Fianna are holding an exercise there tomorrow after Mass. May I go? I can ride my bicycle.’

A mischievous light comes into her eyes. ‘Very well, but you must be home by teatime. Let your father
assume you’ve been playing with your friends.’

Aunt Nell and I are conspirators against my father.

On Sunday morning I dress as usual. Then I fold my Fianna uniform very tightly and stuff it into my
backpack
, together with a cheese sandwich and an apple. Aunt Nell and I attend Mass together. My father never goes to church any more. When the service is over I set out for Fairview, pausing long enough to change clothes in the toilet of a hotel on the quays. Several people are sitting in the hotel lobby reading the Sunday papers. When I come out wearing my Fianna uniform, the desk clerk tells them, ‘That’s one of the Countess’s boys.’

I cannot resist swaggering a bit as I leave the hotel.

Father Matthew Park is little more than a
waste-ground
with a few straggling bushes. By the time I arrive the place is already crowded with men and boys. Bicycles belonging to the Volunteer Cycle and
Signalling
Corps are lying on the ground to one side, so I leave my bicycle with the rest and start looking for someone I know.

Mr MacDonagh and Ned Halloran are standing with Éamonn Ceannt, who has played music for us at the school. All three wear grey-green Volunteer uniforms with Sam Browne belts and peaked caps. Most of the men here are in civilian clothes, however. They have done the best they can by belting their coats tightly
around their waists and wrapping canvas around their shins to look like leggings.

A familiar voice shouts my name. ‘John Joe!’ Roger is running toward me. ‘This is some hooley! What did you bring for rations?’

‘Cheese sandwiches and an apple. You?’

He pats the various pockets of his tunic. ‘Buttered scones, fruit cake, a bottle of minerals, and three packs of chocolate biscuits.’

‘You better hope that butter doesn’t melt in your pocket. Do you know where we’re going?’

Roger looks smug, the way he does when he knows something I don’t. ‘Out to Howth and back.’

‘How far is that?’

‘Miles and miles,’ he says casually, which means he doesn’t really know. ‘I brought a change of socks anyway.’

I did not think to bring a change of socks, but I’m not going to tell Roger that.

Con Colbert strides briskly toward us. He’s wearing his Fianna uniform with a Volunteer badge pinned to the tunic. ‘Glad you two could come, that gives us a full complement from St Enda’s. I won’t be your
commandant
today, though. You’ll take your orders from Bulmer Hobson.’

‘How many men are here altogether, sir?’

He sweeps the crowd with his eyes. ‘Eight
companies
of the Dublin Brigade and almost a hundred Fianna. Nine hundred in total, I’d say.’

‘Nine hundred,’ Roger murmurs, sounding impressed. He points to the Fianna trek cart, which is parked off to one side. ‘Do we have enough
refreshments
for so many?’

‘Can you lads keep a secret?’ We both nod, of course. ‘Well, today that cart’s loaded with weapons of self-defence in case the police try to stop us.’

In case the police try to stop us? What sort of march is this?

As soon as Con Colbert leaves us to join his
comrades
in the Dublin Brigade, I suggest we look inside the cart. Roger pulls up a corner of the tarp while I peek beneath. The cart’s filled to the brim with stout oak batons!

Just then Bulmer Hobson gives the order to form up. The Fianna are to march in the middle of the column, surrounded by Volunteers. The big trek cart, pulled by a team of Fianna, will bring up the rear. Since Roger and I happen to be standing near the cart, we’re among the boys assigned to the team.

It’s not always smart to be curious. I can’t help it, though.

The column sets off at a spanking pace. With the
heavily laden trek cart, we’re pushed to the pins of our collars to keep up. Fortunately the teams are rotated frequently.

People hang out of their windows to watch the march go by. Some of them laugh and applaud. I feel like laughing myself, I’ve never had so much fun in my life.

As we move out into the countryside a strong wind begins to blow off the Irish Sea. The sun was shining earlier but clouds are gathering now. Although the
temperature
is dropping I’m not cold. I swing along with my chin up and my shoulders back as if Madame herself were watching. Roger is already eating the food he brought. I don’t want to open my pack while we’re marching. It would not look very soldierly.

Clontarf, Dollymount, Raheny, Kilbarrack, Sutton. We pass small cottages and large country houses, sheep in pens and horses in pasture, fields of corn and vegetable plots. The Hill of Howth rises ahead of us like the shoulder of a giant emerging from Dublin Bay.

I’m getting a blister on my heel but I’m not going to limp. I don’t cry and I don’t limp.

We’re almost in Howth when the order is given to halt. ‘About bloody time,’ Roger mutters. He’s out of breath at this stage. We’ve marched about eight miles, I guess, without a break. I’m breathing hard myself but I keep my mouth closed so it doesn’t show.

The Fianna are summoned to the front of the column by an officer called Cathal Brugha, whom I recognise because he’s been to St Enda’s a couple of times. ‘We need nimble lads who can move quickly,’ he tells us, ‘so the next part of the operation is up to you. We’ll be following this road on into the village. The harbour will be on your left. When a yacht called the
Asgard
arrives you are to go aboard as soon as she docks, and unload her cargo. Don’t waste a minute. Once the goods are ashore the Volunteers will take charge of them.’

Roger and I exchange glances. He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Unload cargo?’

‘It’s no worse,’ I reply, ‘than being a draft horse for a trek cart.’

The march resumes. Some of the Volunteers were singing earlier, but they’re tired now, and quiet by the time we enter the village. To our left a forest of masts rises from the water. Lobster pots are stacked on the stone quay fronting the harbour. The air smells sharp and salty. Gulls shriek overhead. One drops a great white splodge on the shoulder of the boy in front of me, but I don’t tell him. Instead I nudge Roger and we grin silently.

Three large motor cars pass us at speed. They park along the quay. Several men in long coats get out and begin walking back and forth, gazing out toward
Ireland’s Eye. Fishermen who are spreading their nets to dry watch them curiously.

Since I’ve never been to Howth before I want to see everything. My head swivels around to look at the little boats bobbing like corks on the water, the cottages scattered across the hill, the sweet shop with a row of glass jars in the window …

‘No time for gawking, lads,’ Bulmer Hobson calls out. ‘Take possession of the pier now. Step lively!’

We trot smartly onto the timber pier and form two lines. Behind us on the quay, the Volunteers wait
impatiently
. There’s a lot of foot-shifting and milling about. Obviously they aren’t as well-drilled as we are.

Spectators are gathering on the hillside above us. What do they expect to see? There is a tingling in the air like the atmosphere before thunder. I don’t know just what’s going to happen but something is, something big, something exciting.

We are barely in position when one of the men in long coats gives a shout. ‘It’s the harbinger of
liberty
!’ He points to a sleek little yacht beating its way toward Howth against the rising gale. It seems to be very low in the water. As the yacht draws nearer we can make out two women among the small crew on deck.

Glancing around, I see Mr MacDonagh talking with
the men in long coats. His face is flushed and his eyes are very bright.

From the far side of the harbour a coast guard vessel flying the Union Jack sets out to meet the yacht. I hold my breath, I’m not sure why. They turn back when they see how many men are gathered at quayside. There are only four or five men on the coast guard boat and almost a thousand of us.

Several taxicabs have arrived by now, and parked on the quay. They leave their motors running.

After skilful manoeuvring to avoid the fishing boats, the yacht reaches the pier. It almost overshoots, but as the lines are thrown out a couple of the Volunteers make a valiant effort to catch them and pull the yacht back. In a couple of minutes the vessel is securely docked. The Fianna in the front row – including Roger and me – quickly go aboard.

When I jump down onto the deck I can feel the yacht sway like a living thing. My stomach comes right up into my throat. But there’s no time to be queasy. The hatches have been removed and we can see the cargo waiting for us below.

The penny drops.

The
Asgard
is packed with rifles for the Irish Volunteers!

A man in oilskins identifies himself as Erskine
Childers, the captain of the yacht, and very politely thanks us for coming. He helps the two women onto the pier, then he and three other men disembark.

Meanwhile some of the Fianna go below. They find the saloon-cabin and passageway almost blocked by stacks of guns, taking up every conceivable inch of space. More are piled onto the bunks and stowed in the lockers. ‘They’ve put their mattresses down on the guns and been sleeping on them!’ a boy shouts to those of us on deck.

They begin handing the weapons out to us through the hatches. As the first rifles appear, some of the
Volunteers
break ranks and rush forward, shoving the Fianna on the pier aside in their eagerness to get to the guns. It’s awfully dangerous; one boy is almost knocked into the water between the pier and the boat.

Erskine Childers shouts, ‘There’ll be no unloading until someone takes command of those men!’

An extremely tall, bespectacled officer is the first to bring his company under control. He uses his voice like a whiplash. Shame-faced, the Volunteers fall back.

‘That man is a friend of my parents,’ Roger boasts. ‘He’s a maths teacher called de Valera.’

With order restored, we begin handing the weapons up to the Fianna on the pier. The spectators on the
hillside
cheer! The operation goes with amazing
smoothness, every boy doing his part. By passing them hand to hand along the column, nine hundred rifles and several boxes of ammunition are unloaded in half an hour.

My arms and shoulders ache and my hands are filthy with grease. If I were not wearing my Fianna uniform I would wipe my hands on my clothes. Instead I wipe them on one of the lines securing the
Asgard
to the pier. I suppose a little grease won’t hurt a piece of wet rope.

The Volunteers pack the rifles into the waiting
taxicabs
, which roar away toward the city as soon as they are loaded. A number of the Volunteers keep rifles for themselves.

But the ammunition boxes are still sitting on the quay.

Bulmer Hobson calls us to him. ‘It appears the Fianna are the only ones who have enough discipline to be entrusted with ammunition. Empty out the trek cart and put these boxes into it. They’re your
responsibility
now.’